Chapter 8: The Loft

Cade's workshop sat on a steep street in Millvale, behind a roll-up door painted brown.

The air inside smelled like cedar and machine oil.

Stair parts hung from the rafters, and a half-built banister lay across two sawhorses.

A steel ladder led to a loft with one lamp on.

"My place," he said. "Nobody comes here but my customers and the guy who delivers wood."

"Trevor?"

"Not in four years."

I climbed the ladder with my good hand, and he followed so close behind that I could feel his heat on my calves.

Up top there was a double bed, a bookshelf of paperbacks with cracked spines, and a kitchen the size of a closet.

He put the kettle on and stood with his back to me, filling it, drying his hands, doing everything twice.

"I'll take the couch," he said. "Rule's the rule."

"Which rule?"

"Home is home."

"That's the one about touching."

"It's all of them."

I crossed the floor in my socks and stopped behind him.

He went still.

"Cade."

"Yeah."

"I'm going to say it out loud, the way you made me promise."

He turned around slowly.

His split lip had scabbed over, and I wanted to put my mouth on it.

"I want you to touch me," I said. "Not for Trevor, not for anyone. Nobody's watching."

His breath went out of him.

"Lainey, you got hit on the head three days ago."

"My head's fine. My wrist hurts. That's the only part of me that's out of order."

"You're angry."

"I am." I took a step so close my breasts touched his shirt. "And I've been thinking about your hands since you put that bag in the chair."

A muscle moved in his jaw.

"Say it again," he said, low.

"I want you to touch me."

The kettle began to whistle behind him, and he reached back without looking and shut off the burner.

Then he bent and lifted me against him.

He kissed me all over again, only now nothing stopped him.

My legs went around his hips and my back hit the cold edge of the counter.

His mouth traveled down my throat, hot and sure, and I felt the scrape of his stubble all the way to my collarbone.

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